


All This and Heaven Too

by morgisback



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Drama, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Its a lot, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Opposites Attract, Secret Relationship, Slow Build, Slow Burn, acquaintances to enemies to business partners to friends to lovers, strong woman does everything she can to protect her cowboy boyfriend, wilson as a placeholder name
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21857140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgisback/pseuds/morgisback
Summary: They just needed money - which you had.  You needed guns who were able to hold their own - which Arthur Morgan was."Quid pro quo," You said."Huh?"  Arthur snapped.The Wilson Family were all but royalty in England - they were titans in the market on oil, sugar, and weapons and spread from the British Isles to India. The Van der Linde gang were wanted outlaws, criminals and murderers and rebels with deteriorating morales but a plan.  It made sense:  Sinners to help protect the saints.  An opportunity for Arthur to make more than enough money to get the hell out of dodge with his family in tow.  A way for you to protect your family's shares while your brother recovered, to help you get home to your fiance and quiet life in Chelsea.  You and Arthur needed each other to keep each other alive."A business deal," you say."A simple business deal and nothing more," he agreed.What would life be if everything went according to plan, right?
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Reader, Javier Escuella/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	All This and Heaven Too

America seemed to _insist_ on moving at a slow crawl at all given times - it was a fact that displeased you _immensely_. The sand and the heat seemed to drag even time itself to a sluggish pace that would make even the Devil himself want to scream. Everything seemed to move at the same indolent speed - the bugs, the horses, even the wind fell prey to the leisurely, cumbersome drawl that the heat draped about the air. 

Very much unlike the vibrant and bustling life of the London streets you were accustomed to.

Still, James seemed determined to keep himself..._busy_. Your brother - a twin in appearance only - seemed to be the fastest moving object in a 10-kilometer radius. Without having to look up from your needle and thread, you could feel the frustration radiating from him, if the incessant scratching of pen against paper was any tell. It was hard to focus on your cross-stitching when you could hear each and every exasperated sigh that escaped his chest as he toiled away over his paperwork. The trip into Valentine from your temporary residence - your Father’s old hunting lodge in the middle of the woods - was a long one and it didn’t take him more than a moment in the carriage before popping open his briefcase and setting to work. 

You finally dared to pull away from your tiny woodland creatures, pausing in the middle of a stitch to glance up at James; the sight of him just about destroyed you. Anyone could tell by the crease in his brow and the squint in his eye how entirely miffed he was becoming. It didn’t take someone who knew him well to see how strained his patience had become over the past three months.

He had every right to be upset, you supposed - _nothing_ had been going right since Father had sent him over here. More caravans were hit last month than ever before and each town's local law seemed to be utterly worthless when it came to capturing the guilty. Each day, he would implore for justice to be served, but even that task seemed slowed by the overbearing heat.

It was a monumental endeavor, that was for certain, and one you weren’t entirely sure he was up for. James was a kind, well-meaning man, and never meant any harm to anyone. He would be eaten alive out here, and both you and Father knew it. Father had hoped that it would harden James, stiffen his spine and let him be more confident - both in himself and the legacy he was soon to inherit. The oil portion of the Wilson dynasty would fall to him when your father, Obadiah Wilson, passed - and James was never one to be shown up by your two older brothers, Julian and Peter. Hundreds of years of hard work, blood, sweat, and tears defined the men of the Wilson family.

But James was never what one would call "business savvy" - quite the opposite, in fact. Julian always fondly referred to the youngest male of the family as "the black sheep served rare with a rum sauce" once and you had to admit: it was rather spot on. James was better suited for charming those around him, to drinking and singing and being merry. He liked people, terrible drink, gambling and, most of all, being _alive_. He had disclosed to you that he was terrified that he would be killed over some sort of business dispute - though he would never admit it fully to anyone else, least of all to Father. However, most of all, he feared he would fail the endeavor entirely - bankrupt their oil shares and have to sail back to England with his tail between his legs. 

But _someone_ had to make this sacrifice. With Father busy with the expansion in Africa and the Middle East, it was up to James to see the development of Oil in America. Revenue was tumbling and news of ransacked deliveries being attacked flooded in a few days before Father booked James passage on the first ship out of London. It was up to the heir to figure out who was hitting the trade routes your father had established and put a stop to it. Someone had to travel across the pond and protect the family's investments while also securing even more oil fields to begin earning back the revenue lost from the raids. Someone had to put their neck on the line to show these bloody American outlaws that the Wilson family - your family - was not to be trifled with. And as the heir and future owner of the _Wilson & Sons Oil Company_, it had to be James.

But James didn't have the stones for all this.

You were here to keep an eye on the ever-deteriorating mental state of your brother - much to his relief. Though you were doing less **gallivanting** than you had originally expected - in fact, it was more like crawling along and waiting for something to happen. But you would endure, for James’s sake.

The scratching stopped as James lifted his head, catching you as you stared at him. You maintained your gaze, refusing to break first. It was painful to see the bags under his eyes, the wrinkles that were already starting to grace his forehead and the crow’s feet that had begun to dot his temples. You watched as a strained smile crossed his lips, causing the curls of his mustache to tickle his nostrils. Your eyes narrowed and your brow quirked; you refused to break eye contact first and this caused him to falter and his smile to weaken. Unsurprisingly, he relented, eyes falling to his hands before traveling out the window to the expanse of field and dust that had become synonymous with The Heartlands. The ensuing silence sat in that cart for a long time, but the mood finally lightened as he focused instead on something other than paperwork and the ever-looming threat of failure. 

“Read this over for me, would you?” 

“Of course.” Without hesitation, you abandoned your cross-stitch in the seat beside you as you reached over and took the document from him. With a groan, James sat back and immediately tugged at the black-tie around his neck, returning his attention to the passing scenery. 

Even with your quick glance, you could see the wistfulness in your brother’s expression. The fields surrounding Valentine were plain, but they held their own tiny hint of charm. The local fauna lazily glanced your way from the hills above, staring at the carriage as if they knew the two of you didn’t belong on this land. You saw them bound off to safety, and you felt in your heart that James wished to do the same. You both did. 

It was hard not to long for home, missing it every second of every day. You longed for the family's estate, it’s imposing presence that teemed with the tell-tale signs of life. The hunting lodge was so...empty without your parents presence and you found yourself pining for them more and more. You missed the tiny facets that seemed so far away now: the sound of women’s laughter as your Mother entertained guests in the drawing-room or passing by the study to hear your Father and brothers discuss business over coffee or brandy. Still, some of the amenities of the Wilson Estate followed you over the Atlantic, allowing you - at least - a little bit of the comforts of home: the soft singing of the housekeeper, Miss Winifred, as she moved about her duties; the quick footsteps of your butler, Mr. Kapoor, who always dazzled you and James stories of his home back in Kheda. You were especially grateful for _Monsieur_ and _Madame Giroux_, the cooks. They were more like grandparents to you when you were growing up, and had a habit of disobeying the will of your Mother and Father to offer you and your siblings a special treat of toast and preserves when you had been sent to bed without supper.

_“C’est notre petit secret, d’accord?”_

But your Mother and Father? Them, you missed the most. They loved and doted on your every need - seeing that you got the finest education money could offer. While James lived for the more...extracurricular activities, you soaked up each and every lesson a college education could offer a woman. It was partially the reason you had even decided to make this journey with him. You didn’t leave much room for discussion, packing your bags and leaving behind your luxurious home, a respectable fiance, and the only life you had ever known to go gallivanting against the “Wild, Wild West”, as it were, in the search of even more reliable sources of oil.

Because James was the twin with personality, but you had the brains behind it all.

Still, longing for things didn’t make them come true. With a heavy heart, you turned back to the document and let your mind focus on the words. It was a request to the US Government - James was trying to acquire the rights to drill somewhere further South. This struck you as odd, as the entire plan had been to go out West, expanding further inland through untapped reserves in hopes of establishing oil rights on land that wasn’t yet owned but was being cleared for civilization. It's what he had been doing for most of the month - organizing groups to travel all over the West to test for oil, to scout out new and better opportunities to expand the drilling. 

You reached up to rub your temple, brow furrowing as you read further on. “What’s this about heading south?”

“It’s just an idea,” James answered, still focused on the tumbleweeds and dust outside the carriage. 

The south was all but claimed. Trying to set up stakes there would be difficult, nay impossible. He would be encroaching and metaphorically butting heads with the Oil Magnates who had been there long before you had even been born. This didn’t make any sense - _this wasn’t the plan he and Father had discussed_. What even **was** south? You plucked the map from his side of the carriage and spread it across your lap. If he truly planned to travel further south, he would be heading into and rubbing against the land owned by…

“_**Leviticus Cornwall.**_” You didn’t bother hiding your disapproval, eyeing your brother from over the paper. “Have you gone absolutely mad?”

“My dearest sister, whatever do you mean?” James blinked once and pursed his lips together. It had worked in his favor with Mother when you were little, but it hardly put a dent in your glare.

“Would you like me to list all the reasons why going after land owned by **_Leviticus Cornwall_** is a terrible idea?”

“Even if I said no, I’m sure you would ignore me and do it anyway.” James rolled his eyes in a dramatic manner. _He did it because he knew it annoyed you and he was right_. He extended his hand for the document, but you refused to budge. Instead, he turned his attention behind you. “Matthew!”

You glanced over your shoulder, looking out through the tiny window and up into the kind face of the driver, Matthew Blatt. He had become a fast friend when you arrived in America. A former military man, he signed on early as a driver and escort. He was all pink and blotchy from the sun, his tiny wicker hat doing little to block the heat and rays. At the sound of his name, he turned to give your brother a smile and a nod. “Yessir?”

“How far off are we to Valentine, my good man?”

“Not much longer now, I reckon. Horses're makin' good time, givin' the damned heat, 'course.”

“That’s what I like to hear! Give me my letter back.” 

He motioned again for the paper, trying to make a grab for it. You leaned back, making sure to press it to your chest to keep it out of reach. “Father said that we were to head further _west_. Not **south**. South is already owned and we do not have the standing to try and push for-”

“Yes, yes.” He waved you off, eyeing the letter. You gripped it tighter. “But I have a _good feeling_ about the South. **South** is where the Oil is. You agree with me, don't you, Matthew?"

The driver let out a huff through the nose, which you had come to recognize as the older man's version of laughing. "Yessir."

"See, dear sister? Matthew agrees with me. Like I said: I have a good feeling."

You were all too familiar with the knot in your stomach and the throb in your head - they were never too far behind when James had a “good feeling”. They were never “good feelings”, as “good” would imply that they worked out in his favor and didn’t backfire on him in the worst ways possible. Which they _always seemed to do_. You wanted to inform him of this fact - remind him of the good feeling he had when he tried to sneak into a ball for Queen Victoria to see if the cakes were truly as good as he had remembered. Or the good feeling he had when he had fallen madly in love with the favorite daughter of one of Father’s long-time business partners and life -long friends during a summer trip to Paris and had nearly convinced her to elope with him under the Eiffel Tower. Or when he nearly lost your cat eight glasses of whiskey deep in a card game by promising the card shark that the poor creature once belonged to an Arabic prince. 

You remembered at that moment that you were still_ quite bitter_ that he thought Mr. Albert was only worth **ten bloody pounds**.

You nearly hissed as you shoved the paper back to him, making sure to crumble it in the process. “South is where your _grave_ will be,” you snapped, snatching your cross stitching up and settling back into your work, intent on ignoring your brother and focusing on the woodland scene in your hands.

_Twins in appearance only._

James laughed, a snicker hidden behind a glove. “We shall see. I have already written to Father about our-"

"_Your_."

"_**Our**_ change of plans. With luck, he’ll respond by the end of the week and we can-”

“He’ll say no.” You tugged harshly on the thread, tightening it more than you should have and creasing the fabric. The buck’s eyes were now entirely uneven, which only made your mood fouler. “The plan was to go west.”

“They haven’t _found_ anything out there yet. We have had men out there searching for _months_ and they’ve turned up nothing.”

“It’s still too early to tell. This is a big country and it could take **months** to find anything substantial to start production.”

“I don’t want this to take months!" James whined, sinking lower in his seat. "I want to be out of this godforsaken country. There is nothing here but dirt and regret and I, for one, am entirely bored of it.”

“You think you’re the only one?” Your head snapped up so quickly, it was surprising it didn't break off your neck and slam into poor Mr. Blatt's back. "This country is Hell on Earth and we _both_ have left things back home, James."

“You left on your own volition, my dear sister. Don’t forget: I was there when Baptiste was practically begging you to stay home.” 

...Why did he have to bring **him** up? Why did he have to take that knife and stab it in your chest? The distance was already too much and the letters were doing little to ease the pain of it all. You had resolved early on not to think about your fiance, Baptiste. Even so, when things were quiet at night and you were wondering if all of this running around and throwing yourselves in the middle of a land feud was worth it, you thought of him. 

Baptiste was a handsome man from a well off family of vintners in France; their wineries were quickly becoming a household name all over Europe and would no doubt stretch even here - now that Baptiste was taking ownership. He was so kind, so gentle, and so incredibly intelligent. A man that held such a high level of charm and poise, only true gentlemen could ever dream of achieving it. His voice was as smooth as silk and his touch was as light as he made you feel when his fingers met your skin.

_And you were absolutely smitten with him._

He always supported you - no matter what silly endeavors you wanted to pursue. Most men would be put off by the sort of role you took with your father and brothers’ companies. But not Baptiste. He found it admirable, even called you powerful once. "It's your strength that makes me swoon," he had said once, under his breath between kisses. "Why would I want to change that?"

But when he had heard you were making the journey to the states, he was all but heartbroken. It was the only time he had asked you if you were sure of something, that he even humored the idea of asking you to reconsider. "Do you _have_ to go?" He asked, watching you flit about the room. "Can't James do this on his own?"

He knew all too well what James was doing was dangerous, and he knew that you would ultimately be pulled in to the middle of it all. You could see the fear in his face, the terror causing his green eyes to turn red.

It was only a few months before you were to be married on his family’s vineyard in _Bordeaux_ \- and here you were, in the middle of some nowhere livestock town called **Valentine**, cross-stitching deer and trees and trying to keep your brother from being shot in the back. But you would never leave James twisting in the wind, and Baptiste knew that. He watched you as you finished packing your final suitcase, waiting for only a moment before taking your hand. He gave you a chaste, soft kiss before whispering, “Write to me? Everyday?”

And you promised him that, with tears in your eyes and his lips against your skin to kiss each drop away.

You glanced up, red eyes already narrowed and your mouth open to argue - when something outside the window cut your voice short: A steadily growing black mass that was soon followed by the sound of a stampede with an underlying chorus of men yelling and hollering. For a moment, you found it hard to speak, hard to process a thought aside from wondering briefly what that ever-growing thing meant. But before your brain could come to terms with anything, the sound of a gunshot immediately drew your voice out in a shrill scream.

James lurched forward and into your lap, letting out a yell as he threw his hand up to cover his left shoulder. You had little choice but to catch him, wrapping your arms around him and pulling both of you down onto the floor. You heard Mr. Blatt let out a shout and the horses cry out in fear. "We got O'Driscolls!!"

In a beat, the once calm scene outside the carriage had become a mess of blacks and green. The whoops and hollers of men quickly surrounded the carriage, creeping in all around, pressing the walls down on you. It was enough to instill the fear of God, overwhelming both emotions and senses. You smelled the gunpowder of the rifles, it burned at your nose and made your eyes water. You were familiar with that acrid scent. But there was something under it - bitter and metallic and...and…

“I...I think I’ve been shot.”

It took a moment for everything to catch up. You knew you what you had smelled - it was enough to punch your stomach down to your feet. But your shaking hands didn’t move to do much of anything. You looked down at James, the quickly growing and irrevocably ugly black shadow on his back pulled your attention straight to it. Your fingers pull back - they were stained red. Blood..._blood_. Your eyes widened as you looked at Mr. Blatt, “Hurry! We should almost be to-”

Another gunshot. You immediately knew you shouldn’t have moved. You had never seen a man shot, nor had you ever seen a man shot in the head. The image of the ever-kind Mr. Blatt lurching back and slumping to the side of the seat will haunt you until the day you die. The feeling of something wet and..._gritty_ covering your face was all but forgotten as you watched the corpse fall back, chest pointed up towards the sky. Whoever these men were, it became painfully clear that they didn't mean to leave any witnesses. 

Okay.** Stay calm**. You had no means to defend yourself. James was turning pale and Mr. Blatt was dead. You could hear the whoops and hollers as the men drew closer. Just...stay calm. “_What do I do_?” You frantically looked around the carriage, trying to find something - anything - to defend yourself.

You winced when James called your name. “I...I don’t feel very good.”

“It’s...it’s going to be alright, James. We’ll be alright, just...just stay calm and…”

Your eyes fell on the belt around Mr. Blatt's waist and - as if the Angels themselves were showing you the way - a flash of silver. _**A gun**_. The poor dead man's revolver. That..._that was it_. If you were going to save both your skins you had to move, and quickly. Without a second thought, you grabbed at the black fabric if your skirt. With one good tug, it tore away from the rest of your garment, leaving you with enough to try to stop James from bleeding out. You pressed the fabric to his back and urged his good hand to hold it as best as he could. 

Once satisfied he had a good enough grip, you nodded - it would have to do until you could get him to an actual doctor. Now...the belt. You twisted, reaching through the window and around Mr. Blatt's waist. You flinched only once as a bullet ricocheted off the wood and sent splinters flying through the air - but you steel your resolve and make quick work of the buckle. 

"What...what are you doing?" James let out a groan, watching with a weakened gaze as you tugged the heavy leather through the tiny window and yanked the revolver from its holster. You opened the chamber, counting six of the seven bullet...holder...things filled.

"How do I fire it?" You asked, closing the wheel and looking it over. You just had to scare them off.

James stared, incredulously. He shook his head, eyes wide and terrified. "No...no! You don't mean to tell me-"

"**James Edwards**!!" You scream, glaring at him as you shakily hold the gun. "If you do not tell me how to fire this gun this instant, I will shoot you _myself_ \- do I make myself clear!?"

He didn't bother to hide the hesitation on his face. "Cock...cock back the lever. Aim for the horses - you won't be able to hit the riders." 

You did as instructed, the tremble of your hands making it hard but your thumb found purchase. You just wanted to stop them or scare the horses enough to buck them off. _You don't have to kill anyone_.

The window to your left was closest. You glanced out, seeing 3 men with green bandanas covering their mouths, riding along the flank of the carriage. One man made eye contact with you and before you had time to rethink your plan, you aimed in the general vicinity of the large beast beneath him. The kickback of the shot was enough to nearly dislocate your shoulder and the pain shot up your arm and settled in your neck. But you could hear the cry of pain from the horse and a shout from a man. No. Not just one man. Two. You looked back out the window, seeing two men and two horses left in the dust as your carriage continued to barrel down the dirt path. 

You...you might actually be able to do this; the thought of you being able to survive this all is enough to spur you into another action. You take another breath and turn to James, "What do I do now!?"

“Pull the lever back to load another- AH!”

You ducked down as a bullet passes through the carriage, drawing a swear out of both you and James. He called out your name, reaching for you and the gun - but you grabbed it before his fingers brushed against the grip. “Stay down!” you snarled, pulling back the lever as instructed. You tried to aim, tried to take down the other horse, but the man took a shot at you as well. For a moment, your life flashed before your eyes, and you had just enough forethought to duck back under your makeshift shelter of a bullet-riddled door. “Shit!!”

You had four rounds left - you knew how to do the math. With five men - perhaps more waiting up at the crossroads before Valentine - you were at a sharply growing disadvantage that didn’t seem to be changing its route anytime soon. The thought made the tears prick at your eyes as your mind raced to find a solution. Perhaps if you could just...hold them off for as long as possible? Time your shots to keep them from taking out too much of the carriage before you could be in town proper. The people would scare them off, right? Surely the law would?

...Right?

You glanced at James - and the sight of him nearly froze you in your place. He was curled, gripping his shoulder weakly and taking slow and shallow breaths. His eyes were clenched tightly...and you heard him muttering. “One...two...three...four-” He was counting. That fact alone made you want to reach out and grab his shoulder, assure him everything was going to be okay. “...five...six…s-seven...eight...n...nine...fuck..._shit…I don’t_...”

No. No, you were not going to risk his life on the chance that the Law of Valentine would finally decide to jump up and do their job. After a deep breath, you crawled over him and looked out the right window. A speckled white horse appeared first; with little hesitation, you took aim and shot. The blood splattered everywhere, you couldn’t watch as the wounded animal fell to the ground, taking the rider out with it. 

“_Kill that damn bitch!!!_” One of the riders screamed, taking aim for you directly.

A gunshot fired. You ducked down, covering your head for the spray of wood...but none came. Did they miss you? **Were you dead**? You didn’t pull the trigger. Quickly, you poked your head out. You sit bewildered as the man who had aimed at you went down, slumping forward on his horse before falling under its feet. If you didn't fire the shot and the rest of the men hadn't decided to commit treason...who had killed him? The hope wanted to pull through, to lift your spirits - but confusion’s grip held tight. Another shot - this time, you’re able to trace its source.

The way the sun posed behind the hill, he looked like an angel of God descending from the heavens. For a brief moment, you found it amusing that this was almost too picturesque - a hero flying down from on high to rescue those in distress. Someone was certainly looking out for you in that moment. Your heart hammered in your ears and you were too tired to stop yourself from gawking as a man on a golden horse took another shot - another rider fell, his horse dragging his corpse in the dirt below.

While it was hard to make out his features, you saw the tan coat around the savior’s shoulders; the black of the hat topped on his head shadowed his brow but you swore you saw the fire in his eyes as he readied another shot. And it was easy to understand what this mysterious stranger was doing:

_Saving your god damn lives._

The prospect of having someone on your side now lit the fire under you; if he would cover the right, you could hopefully take out the remaining man on the left side. James grabbed the hem of your skirt, mumbling your name. "Wha...what the hell is going on?"

“Someone’s helping us.” 

There was a pause before James seemed to register what you said. His head snapped up, looking at you with pained perplexion. “Please...please tell me...it’s the...sheriff?”

“Well, it’s not like he gave me his bloody calling card, James!”

You didn’t elaborate, stepping over your brother’s wounded form once more pressing against the left side of the carriage. If you remembered right, only one man remained on this side. Hazarding a glance, you dared to slip up and glance out the window. He was close now, his horse racing alongside what was left of the stained wood. Your throat tightened as you realized his hand was outstretched, reaching out for the door or to you - more than likely whichever he found purchase with first. Purely panicked, you let out a yell and took a shot. 

“_Sonuvobitch_!”

You tasted blood in your mouth, metallic and bitter, that lingered far too long. But the man recoiled and threw his hand in the air...or rather, what was left of it. You stared, awestruck, as your brain suddenly registered that the revolver had blown the man’s appendage clean off. The horror of it all was not lost on you, but you couldn’t help but feel...relieved. If he didn’t have a hand, he couldn’t use a gun, right? 

Still, his ability to properly use the rifle on his back was forgotten as the horse let out a whinny, pulled off and away, moved away from your carriage. His screaming hadn’t stopped, growing more and more desperate and terrified as the minutes passed. After the raider was a few meters behind you, he rolled, falling off his horse and was quickly left in the dust. 

The weight of what happened hit you, harder than you expected. With a sigh, you collapsed to your knees and let the pistol rest in your lap. You didn’t realize you were gasping until you felt a familiar hand settle over yours. You paused, swallowing thickly - but resolved to give James a shaky smile. “We...we have to figure out how to stop the horses.”

“Are they all...dead?” he asked, trying to lift himself up. The bleeding was worse. His side was sticky with blood.

“I...I think so. I’m not sure, the man seemed to be making shor-”

A thud from above interrupted you, the carriage rocked and lifted up on two wheels before slamming back down onto the ground. You gasped, reaching again for the pistol. You aimed it up towards the ceiling, pulled back on the lever, squeezed the trigger and…

_Click._

Your heart sank. You tried the trigger once, twice, three more times.

_Click! Click! Click!!_

“...the blasted thing is jammed!” You hissed, and James met your horrified expression. 

“What do you mean it’s jammed!? Revolvers don’t jam!”

“_Well, this one **bloody** did!!_”

The footsteps moved and from the box, a thick figure slid into place, taking hold of the reigns. You felt the lurch as the horses dug their hooves into the dirt and mud, slowing the carriage until it settled in the heat and dust. 

“_That’s a girl...easy now._” 

The voice was gruff, deep and low in the chest. You twisted, catching sight just in time to see whoever the man was, stand up but - spied only dark pants. The clink of spurs made your hair stand on end as he climbed down from the perch. No. No, no, no. Is this the man that was trying to rescue you? Was this him? Or was it one of the bandits finally trying to collect for all their hard work? 

“Stay down.” You gathered yourself quickly.

It wasn’t up for debate, though as you stood and put yourself between your wounded brother and the door, James seemed insistent on trying to stop you. “What are you-”

The footsteps made their way around the side. You took a deep steady breath - with any luck, whoever it was hadn’t heard that the revolver in your hands was practically worthless. You could probably frighten him off - worst-case scenario, you gave James enough time to make a run for it. 

The door opened suddenly, causing you to jump and your aim to waver for only a moment. Light flooded into the dark, bullet-riddled carriage. It took your eyes a moment to adjust, but once they did you found yourself staring down at a tall, stocky man in a black hat. The same black hat you had seen before. His blue eyes glanced back and forth as his hands slowly rose in the air. “Ah, ma’am, I mean you no harm.”

“Who are you?” You tried to keep your voice steady, low to appear more confident than you felt. Something was better than nothing, right?

His drawl was slow and you weren’t sure if it was because he was trying to gauge the situation, size you up, or consider your mental well being. “Jus’ a stranger.” He answered after another minute of silent deliberation. “I was makin’ my way down to town when I saw your carriage gettin’ attacked.”

“So you just decided to throw yourself into danger...is that just something you do to pass the time then?”

This statement amused him. He let out a laugh, shrugging and ducking his head close to his shoulders. “Yeah,” He sighed, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

...He didn’t seem like he was going to hurt you. That was good at least. You lowered the gun, just a little. Your eyes narrowed and your lips thinned as you looked him over. Apparently, he took this as a sign of good faith, lowering his hands. His eyes continued to look you over, taking in your ripped dress, blood-covered face, and shaking hands. 

“...I still have a bullet in my shoulder.”

The new voice caught the man by surprise. His brows rose and he tilted his body ever so slightly to catch the pitiful form of James lying in a heap on the ground. Still, ever the charmer, James gave him a grin. “Please, take a breather. Don’t want to rush anyone on my account.”

“Ah, _shit_…” The man shook his head, turning his attention back to you. “I’ll ride yah folk into town. There’s a doctor there, he’ll be able to help you.”

You moved to kneel by James, lifting him up and pulling the black fabric away from his shoulder to inspect. You looked at the man again, nodding urgently. “Please. Please, thank you!”

“Don’ mention it.” And with a grunt, he slammed the door shut and climbed back up into the driver’s seat. “Don’ worry,” He called back to you after getting the horses back up to a gallop. “We ain’ that far out from Valentine!”

The bleeding hadn’t stopped. James was about as white as lamb’s wool and you heard the labor of his breathing. “If you die, James Edwards, I will make my way down to Hell myself and kill you all over again.”

He laughed, wheezing and nodding all the way. “Oh, how comforting.”

Still, he never lets go of your hand. You gave it a strong squeeze, pulling him towards you to rest his head on your shoulder. He’s going to live. God willing, he’ll live through this and a hundred years more. “Do your counting, James. In French this time.”

“I...I hate to do it in…”

“I know. Ready?”

He sighed heavily. “_Un...deux...trois…_”

He counted forwards...then backward. You listened, muttering along with him for a moment before you glanced over your shoulder and through the tiny window looking up into the driver’s box. The man’s shoulders were slumped and, aside from the whipping of the reigns, he stayed entirely still. “Sir!” You called up to him. “I apologize, but...you never told me your name!”

For a moment, you thought he didn’t hear you as he sat quietly for a moment. Just when you were about to call out again, he leaned back.

“Arthur. Arthur Morgan.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am so nervous to post this here my god. Let me know what you think!


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